


on fear and how to deal with it

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: Actor RPF, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Phobias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 11:54:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Richard worries a lot, and something goes wrong while filming the barrel riding scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on fear and how to deal with it

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a response to a kinkmeme prompt which asked for
> 
>  
> 
> _Richard Armitage seems to have a form of deep water phobia in real life. I would love a fic of them filming the barrel-riding scene out in an actual river (as we've seen in the production videos, though maybe in a deeper river), with the barrels sealed during the first take, and the actors popping the lids open midway. But a bit of water manages to enter the sealed barrels, nothing dangerous, but this triggers Richard's panic attack. Something goes wrong with some of the barrels as well -- they were sealed too tightly and wouldn't open, including his. Everyone else finds out about Richard's situation pretty late, because roar of the river + distance keep others from hearing him pounding against the wood, trying desperately to get out, and by that time he's already a shaking, crying mess. Everything else, I leave up to Anon._
> 
> The OP also included links to [this](http://www.richardarmitageonline.com/cold-feet/cold-feet-playing-lee.html) and [this](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/8653223/Richard-Armitage-Im-a-bit-mean.-I-havent-got-a-nice-guy-face.html) interview/article.
> 
> I took a few liberties both with the shooting schedule and how that specific scene was done while trying to keep it as close to what we've learnt from the production videos as possible. Obviously everyone experiences phobias and panic attacks differently and I've only got my own experiences to draw on, so apologies if it doesn't reflect your own. (Also, Richard really didn't unpack his bags for three weeks. Let's all just take a moment to hug him, okay.)

Richard’s first few months in New Zealand are marked by fear; fear of failing, fear of messing up, fear of disappointing. The first weeks, before they start shooting and when it’s just the dwarves in their boot camp, are actually terrifying. Every moment feels like a test, like they’re only being put through it to see who gets to stay and who has to go home, like they’re all contestants on _Middle-earth’s Next Top Dwarf._ He’s so worried that Peter and Fran and Philippa will realise he’s not who they want to play Thorin after all that he doesn’t unpack his bags for three weeks, and even then it’s only because he’s run out of fresh clothes and is forced to face the necessity of doing laundry.

It doesn’t really get easier after that either, because walking into Hobbiton on his very first day on set sort of makes him want to put his head between his knees and do breathing exercises. Everyone’s lovely, though, and the other dwarves seem to be no less awed, which is somewhat reassuring. He obsessively goes over his lines while he’s in makeup and then keeps mumbling them to himself as he’s put into costume so he can be sure he’ll remember them later. When the door of Bag End opens to reveal Gandalf, however, his mind still goes blank.

It isn’t a big deal; they have a laugh about it and then do another take, and it does get a little easier after that.

By the time they’re preparing to shoot the scene where the dwarves escape from the Elven king’s palace via barrel, Richard’s stopped lying awake at night worrying if he fucked up during the day; mostly because he’s too exhausted to stay awake for very long after his head touches the pillow, but the point still stands. He’s not only managed to stop calling Ian _sir,_ he’s also made friends and he understands Martin’s biting sense of humour now, or at least he thinks he’s starting to. Sometimes, when Peter pats him on the back or someone gives him a thumbs-up and a smile, he even thinks he’s doing a decent job with Thorin.

And all of that, all his hard won semi-calm and lack of churning stomach pains, sort of goes down the proverbial drain when he realises just how the barrel riding scene will be shot.

It’s the day before the actual shoot and the fourteen members of the company, along with a disturbing amount of crew and stunt coordinators, have been hauled to Pelorus River for a trial run. Peter wants them to go through the whole thing a couple of times to get an idea of what they’re in for and see if there’s anything that needs re-thinking, and he tells them as much. There’s nothing to be worried about, really; they’re not even in costume.

On a logical, conscious level Richard knows this, but that does nothing to help with the dread building in his chest and settling like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach.

“We’ll just put all of you in the barrels,” Peter is saying, “pop the lids on and toss you in.” Richard breathes deeply through his nose, and tries very hard not to visualise the picture that’s being painted. “You’ll have these lovely guys,” Peter gestures to a handful of stunt guys in wet suits, “with you every step of the way, making sure nobody drowns or gets swept away down the river because it’d be a little awkward having to have to recast at this stage of the process.”

It elicits the hoped for reaction and makes everybody laugh. Except for Richard, who’s fairly certain the leaden weight in his gut will make him sink straight to the bottom of this roaring river and he’ll be drowned before anybody ever gets to him, trapped in a tiny, wooden capsule.

“You alright there, mate?” James asks, putting a hand on Richard’s elbow and looking genuinely worried.

Richard nods and tries to smile, and doesn’t say anything because it’s a very real possibility he’ll throw up if he opens his mouth.

James looks at him hard and long, and his voice is surprisingly reassuring and gentle when he speaks again. “You’re gonna be fine,” he says, squeezing Richard’s arm with a grin that looks suspiciously like he’s stolen it from Bofur. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

Richard exhales heavily and feels a bit of the weight in his stomach unfurl into butterflies and fluttering heartbeats. “Yeah,” he says, realising that he’s probably just being stupid. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” James says and claps him on the back, and then his smile twists into something a little more morbid. “Besides, you heard Pete: he’d be pretty pissed if he had to get us a new dwarf king. So I reckon they’ll be extra careful not to let you die.”

He wanders off chuckling to join the others by the riverbank, and Richard really wishes James’s sense of humour were a little less sinister.

As he’s strapped into a life jacket and instructed on what to avoid doing if he doesn’t want to topple over and land himself in the water Richard repeats to himself that _it’ll be fine_ and _nothing’s going to happen_ and _it’s just a bit of water,_ and none of it really helps. All he can think about is how deep the river looks, how he can’t see the bottom through the swirling foam and how he’s nowhere near good enough of a swimmer to make it back to shore if his barrel gets flipped, life jacket or not.

The others seem to be having no such problems, and so he doesn’t say anything. This movie is, above all else Richard’s found, about teamwork, and if they’ve all come this far without throwing any tantrums about the bruises and aching muscles and the obscene hours they’re forced keep, then he’s not going to fuck that up now just because he’s afraid of a little water.

He’s, not entirely coincidentally, the last to be put into his barrel. He’d thought spending as little time as possible inside of it would be best, but in hindsight that might not have been such a good idea after all, because watching the other actors being squeezed into their respective pods only made the prospect of being next seem worse.

He has to step into the water to get into his barrel, and it’s cold where it seeps through his trousers to wet his calves. It takes three people to hoist him up and inside, and he has to bend at the knees a little to fully fit.

“Alright, we’ll put the lids on now and then let the current take you,” the stunt coordinator calls to the fourteen of them. “We’d like you to count to about twenty, then pop them open and do a bit of paddling and steering with your hands, that sort of stuff. We’ll be in boats floating down with you and we’ve got a bunch of guys in place to catch you a little ways downstream.” He looks around to make sure they’ve all got that. “Now, you’re all wearing life jackets and we’re with you but we’d still like you to be careful not to tip the barrels over. Alright, let’s do this.”

Richard’s heart seems to have taken up residence in his throat, or maybe that’s just bile rising.

All around him his co-stars are disappearing into their barrels and someone asks, “Are you okay?”

With startling clarity Richard realises that this is it; his last chance to say something and back out and avoid the panic attack he can feel coming on. “Fine, yeah,” he lies, and slides down a little further so they can fit the lid on.

As soon as it’s sealed off he feels trapped, sound only reaching him in muffled, distorted bursts that he can’t decipher and what little space he has quickly getting warm and damp. He realises he’s panting and well on his way to hyperventilating, so he forces himself to focus on his breathing; in through the nose, out through the mouth. Someone gives him a push and he tips to one side for one, terrifying moment with nothing to brace against before the barrel rights itself again.

It’s dark and he doesn’t really know what’s going on except that he can’t move and he’s spinning, spinning, spinning with the currents and he forgot to count to twenty. He curses under his breath and quickly counts to ten, figuring it’ll have to do for their first trial run. With his right hand, deliberately rested atop his bent knees so the lid is within easy reach, he pushes against the wood above his head and nothing happens.

He pushes harder, and it still doesn’t budge.

He fights the urge to give in to the panic threatening to overwhelm him and makes himself take a handful of deep breaths in a vain attempt to calm down. His lower left arm, trapped between his side and the wood with his hip digging into the crook of it, is starting to fall asleep and his hand is wet.

It takes him a moment to realise that his hand is wet because there’s about five inches of water at the bottom of his barrel, and a moment more to realise that _there’s water inside his barrel._

Any hopes of maintaining a modicum of calm vanish and he uselessly tries to scramble away, only succeeding in cracking his skull against the lid. He pushes and shoves and bucks, carefully controlled breaths tipping over into harsh gasps as he has nowhere to go and more water comes in.

Richard’s brain tells him that it’s still only a few inches, that there’s dozens of stuntmen out there who’ll notice if his barrel doesn’t open sooner rather than later and will proceed to help him as quickly as possible. His heart, on the other hand, beats rabbit-fast in his burning chest like a small, panicked animal and his body thrashes feebly in the confined space and he needs to exhale but he _can’t._

Somebody’s cracking voice is shouting, “Let me out, let me out, let me out, fuck, I can’t breathe, let me out, oh god, please,” and he thinks it might be him but it’s hard to tell with the ringing in his ears and his vision greying. There’s water and wetness and not enough oxygen and he’s going to die in here, drowned or suffocated, and he’s sure he can feel himself getting heavier and sinking and he’s four years old again and back in his neighbour’s garden and his pushchair tips over and falls into the water and he can’t get _out._

There’s a sudden burst of blinding light and a rush of cold air, and someone pulls him out and onto semi-solid ground. His knees sink into soft, wet sand and he staggers to his feet. He can hear voices, but they reach him as if from a great distance and the only sounds he can really make out are his own harsh sobs. It’s only then that he realises he’s crying and he needs to get away from all those wet hands and frantic voices and his legs give way before he can.

He barely catches himself, feels his wrist twinge and elbow protest, and the world won’t stop spinning and he can’t _breathe._

“Richard, look at me,” someone says, and firm hands close around his upper arms and pull him into sitting. “Richard.”

The hands squeeze until it hurts and Richard is jolted back to reality, where he’s crumpled on a rocky patch of shore with his trousers wet and torn at the knee and Graham holding him steady, and he can’t stop crying. And really, this isn’t crying, because he cries during sad movies sometimes and he has an embarrassing inclination to tears when he’s exhausted and _this_ isn’t crying. 

It’s hitching breaths and horribly loud sobs that leave his throat raw, burning tears sliding down his cheeks and his nose running and facing the impossibility of calming down before he passes out or throws up or both. He’s ashamed and afraid and relieved, and it only makes him cry harder.

“Listen to me,” Graham is saying, kneeling on the cold, damp ground. “You’re fine. It’s all fine. You’re okay.”

All it does is make Richard’s hands scrabble against Graham’s chest until they’re caught and given fingers to squeeze and cling to, and he just wants to be able to stop but he can’t.

“Okay,” Graham says, and his voice is gentle and soothing, eyes searching Richard’s face and tension written all across his forehead. “Okay. Just breathe with me, yeah?”

He inhales deeply through his nose and then exhales slowly through his mouth, exaggerating it to encourage imitation, and Richard can’t can’t _can’t_ do it. He chokes out something unintelligible that tips over into uncontrollable hysterical laughter, and Graham gathers both of his hands into one palm to put the other on the back of Richard’s neck.

“Okay,” he says again, more firmly, desperation flashing in his eyes but never creeping into his voice. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay. But I need you to work with me here.”

He takes another long, deep breath and lets it out again, and on the next inhale Richard forces himself to close his mouth and breathe in through his clogged nose. A little whimper escapes him involuntarily, and Graham’s hand squeezes his neck, thumb rubbing soothing circles at the base of his skull.

They exhale together, and Richard has to fight down another wave of panic as he keeps expelling air from his lungs when all he wants to do is take huge, gulping breaths. He makes another broken sound and twitches, knuckles gone white around Graham’s wrist and forearm, and his palms burn as the pressure grinds gravel and dirt into abrasions he wasn’t aware of before.

Graham rests their foreheads together and rubs his heaving back until his grip loosens and his breathing’s slowed down to something approaching calm.

“There you go,” Graham murmurs and reaches for something, and Richard realises he’s shaking when a blanket is wrapped around him.

He still can’t seem to stop crying and his breath hitches every other minute or so, but he’s slowly starting to become aware of himself again. There’s pain throbbing at his temples and along his brow, stinging at his bloody knee and burning at the scratches on his hands. His chest feels as if it’s on fire and there’s a sticky taste of iron in his mouth, and he’s not really shivering as much as his muscles are convulsing.

With awareness of himself comes awareness of his surroundings; rocks digging into his legs that must be hurting Graham as well, the roaring of the river and hushed silence and muffled worry, and far too many people staring at him.

Richard tenses and doesn’t dare to look at any of their faces, and Graham only pulls him against his chest. It allows him to hide his own face and really, properly calm down before being confronted with the real world again, and he’s ashamed of the relieved sob it tears from him.

“It’s okay, lad,” Graham says again, soft and low and spoken against the top of Richard’s head. “It’s all okay now.”

Richard lets himself cry, cradled against Graham’s chest and half curled up on his lap as he is, until the terrified, relieved tears stop and all that’s left is a dull, pounding headache and his breath leaving him in shaky sighs. He still doesn’t want to look at anyone, and he’s infinitely grateful when he’s only ushered off to their makeshift catering tent and doesn’t have to face anything yet.

He sits down heavily in the camping chair Graham directs him to and twists his hands in his lap until someone comes in to push a hot cup of tea into them. He mumbles his thanks and doesn’t look up, and from the corner of his eye he can see Graham having a non-verbal conversation with the newcomer, which results in them being alone again.

There’s silence for a few, long moments, where Richard tries to keep his hands steady enough to drink the tea in careful sips and Graham’s breathing is slow and even and the sounds from outside the canvas walls of the tent seem to come from somewhere far away that doesn’t concern them.

“Feeling better?” Graham asks, when almost a quarter of the tea is gone and Richard’s shivers have stopped being quite so violent.

“Yeah,” he says, and it comes out unsteady and hoarse. He swallows hard and clears his throat, shifting in his seat out of discomfort and embarrassment.

Graham pulls the blanket tighter around Richard’s shoulders where he’s managed to dislodge it, and pulls his own chair close enough that their knees bump.

Richard takes a gulp of tea, and it burns his throat.

Graham puts an arm around him and Richard just sort of falls into it, resting his head on Graham’s shoulder with a sigh.

“I’ve got to go back out there, haven’t I?” Richard asks, the words feeling like lead on his tongue.

Graham shrugs, and the motion jostles Richard a little. “At some point.”

Richard hums in response and burrows closer, limbs heavy and aching. He closes his eyes for a moment, and strong hands take the cup from him and a lingering kiss is pressed to the top of his head and he slips into an exhausted doze before he can say anything.

*

He wakes up with someone squeezing his shoulder and his head pillowed in Graham’s lap. He winces at the way his muscles twinge when he sits up, and James offers him an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, mate, but we’re packing up and heading back now,” he says, and Richard realises it’s considerably darker than when he last looked.

“What time is it?” he asks, and his voice is scraped raw.

James shrugs. “Time to call it a day.”

Richard rubs a hand over his face and glances at Graham, fast asleep in his own criminally uncomfortable camping chair.

“You could have said, you know,” James says, and Richard flushes.

“Yeah, I know,” he says quietly, not quite meeting James’s eye.

“Right, but instead you thought you’d make me look like a complete tosser for making fun of you,” he says, and Richard is startled into laughter.

It wakes up Graham, and they pile into the cars along with everyone else. During the drive and for a good, long while after Richard gets a lot of _you could have said_ and _why didn’t you tell us_ and _are you okay,_ and it only fuels his embarrassment until he recognises their concern as genuine.

All through the actual shoot of the barrel scene, in which there are neither lids nor leaky spots this time around, they’re all incredibly conscious of how Richard’s doing and whether he’s all right. It’s still one of the most horrible things he’s ever had to endure, but jumping right back into it robs the barrels of some of their terror, like getting back onto his bicycle as a kid after he’d fallen off.

At the end of the day, when they’ve had to pack up and get away in record time due to an unexpected weather warning, Graham squeezes his shoulder and offers him a smile that he couldn’t possibly not return.

After that most of Richard’s debilitating fear and worry diffuses, until by the time they re-shoot bits of the scene in the studio in a specially built artificial river his heart almost doesn’t speed up at the feel of splashing water and wet wood.

“That was horrendous,” Aidan says when they’re done, dripping all over the place like the rest of them.

“At least you’re not covered in wet wool,” Adam says mournfully.

“I think I’m actually _more_ wet than when they dumped us in the real river,” Martin grumps, while Stephen struggles not to be weighed down by Bombur’s soaked beard.

“Well, look on the bright side,” Richard says, wringing out his wig, “at least I didn’t get trapped in my barrel this time.”

There’s a beat of silence when nobody seems sure how to react, and then Graham snorts and they all start laughing.

This, Richard thinks, is what he’ll remember best and most fondly about the making of this movie: how something utterly terrifying was turned into a laughing matter.


End file.
